


Scenes from a Rushed Marriage License Adventure

by beta_19, daddygrandpaandthebeaver (CourtneyCourtney), shitshow-mcgee (Lautremonde), stanchezsloppyseconds



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:58:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8448829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beta_19/pseuds/beta_19, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourtneyCourtney/pseuds/daddygrandpaandthebeaver, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lautremonde/pseuds/shitshow-mcgee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stanchezsloppyseconds/pseuds/stanchezsloppyseconds
Summary: Ficlets inspired by Spinetrick's amazing video for the sadly unpublished "Rick and Stanley's Rushed Marriage License Adventure, by Floateron.   We hope to see the whole fic published some day soon, but in the meantime, here's some scenes from Rick & Stanley's engagement and marriage from stanchez-sloppy-seconds, beta-19, daddygrandpaandthebeaver, and shitshow-mcgee!





	

**Author's Note:**

> As recursive a piece of fanfiction as it gets. Guess who wrote each bit! For the [Stanchez Micro-Bang](http://stanchez-bang.tumblr.com).

It was a dark and noisy night. Rick had only remembered it being one of those things when he and Stan had gone to bed earlier that evening.

Groaning, Rick opened his eyes and made note of two things -- it was 2:25 A.M., and the right half of the bed was empty as well as cold. He frowned into the fabric of his pillow.

The familiar clattering of metal muffled by the walls of the Mystery Shack that had awoken him banged on for a few more minutes. Rick gave it until 2:32 before rolling over and getting his feet to the floor. If Mister Mystery wasn’t going to do anything about those darn beautiful men eating his trash in the middle of the night then Rick had to show those bastards who was boss.

Blearily, Rick threw on his lab coat and slipped on a pair of shoes before padding out to the front hall. He made a note of the light coming from the den on his way outside.

“ _Hey_!” Rick bellowed, throwing the door open with a bang and flicking on the porch light at the same time. Two of those weirdly attractive blond men that seemed to live in the woods bolted upright, eyes wild and hands full of garbage. “Get the, get the _fuck_ ooout of our trash,” Rick continued in his best impersonation of Stan. “Some of us are try- are trying to sleeeep!” He considered reaching back inside for the broom, but Rick’s screaming seemed to have done the trick. The two men shared a look then scampered off into the dark.

Task completed, Rick sauntered back in the Shack, feeling more awake thanks to the night air and rush of adrenaline chasing off hobos in the dead of night tended to give him. He paused to lean against the entryway to the living area.

Stan was, naturally, parked in his favorite (only) chair, face illuminated by the bluish light of the boob tube. The volume was low enough that Rick couldn’t make out what show had so enraptured his partner that Stan didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Probably that Countess or Baroness soap opera. Wasn’t nearly as good as _Duck-tective_ , in Rick’s opinion, but when one was stuck with shitty local backwoods channels and no inter-dimensional cable, one could either learn to like it or lump it.

Rick took a minute to further survey the scene. Several empty ice cream pails littered the floor, an errant sock mingling with the debris. Stan had clearly been out here a while, maybe hours. Rick sighed, scratching his stomach. Was something eating at Stan? Was it depression causing his insomnia, or merely old age making his bones restless? Rick shrugged to himself. They were awake now. That was all that mattered.

“What are we - _urp_ \- we watchin’?”

“It’s almost three in the morning and we get shit channels,” Stan replied, voice more gravelly than usual. “What d’ya think we’re watching?”

Rick sighed. _The Duchess Approves_ it was then. “Well scooch o-over,” he said, taking the step down in the living room. He didn’t give Stan any time to adjust, instead draping himself across his partner’s lap. Stan, in turn, was gracious enough to set his carton of ice cream on the end table. Rick appreciated the gesture more than the freezing cold hands that soon found their way to his waist.

Maybe it was the setting, the familiarity of the room, the stupid doily-covered dinosaur head and kitschy owl clock. Maybe it was the bluish hue from the screen casting the room in melancholy shadows and not-bright-enough light. It made Stan look old, Rick thought a bit unkindly, or well, _older_. Maybe it was the stillness of the rest of the house, of the rest of the world, that made the moment feel important. Something about him sitting in Stan’s lap watching a soap opera in the dead of night felt made Rick feel odd, sad and fragile.

Whatever it was, it made Rick realize this place -- this moment -- was one he wouldn’t mind staying in forever. The thought hit him like a sack of bricks. Forever. He wanted to do this forever with Stan and Stan alone.

It’s too honest, this moment. He had to corrupt it somehow, Rick thought.

“Hey Lee?” Rick said, talking solely to break up the silence. It was fragile, it was meant to be broken. Gotta start somewhere.

Stan finally broke his gaze from the ancient television set, turning to face Rick. “Yeah?”

Rick cleared his throat, loosening up some of the words that were stuck. “You know I… you know I lo-love you, right?”

Stan huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, yeah, you old sap,” he replied, voice soft and fond. “I love you, too.”

“You wanna maybe… I do-don’t know, get married?” _Aw fuck_. Of all the stupid things he could have said instead, Rick thought. Here he was trying to shake off earnestness of the moment, and now he’d dialed it up to eleven. Wonderful. He bit his tongue, though, watching Stan’s expression in silence.

At first Stan looked confused, shocked even. “What?” he said after a long moment filled only by an annoying TV commercial jingle. “What makes you say that now?”

Rick shrugged. “I’m t-tired. Life is short.” Fuck, he was bad at romance. “Look, if you don’t want - “

“Sure,” Stan said, a smile slowly working its way across his face. “I mean, of course, Rick. Er, yes.”

“Yeah?” Rick asked.

Stan responded by pulling him in for a kiss, letting his action speak for him. _Yes. Yes. A hundred times yes, you idiot_.

“Good,” said Rick, pulling away after a moment before clearing his throat with a belch, “ ‘cause I was wo-worried there, someone else would, that someone else was gonna ha-have to put up with your uuugly mug day in and day out. Wouldn’t want… I mean, who would want, want to foist that off onnnn some poor unsus-suspecting sap.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he sighed, nearly dislodging Rick from his lap. “Should probably get the marriage license soon then, before the ‘romance’ wears off.”

Rick snickered. “C-couldn’t have that, now could weee?”

* * *

“You _told_ them?” Rick asked.

“I didn’t _tell_ them,” Stan said, as they hurriedly drove away from the shack. The high pitched squealing had gotten to be too much.

“Yeah? H-how’d they find out then?” Rick burped.

“Okay, okay － I _maybe_ told them. After they started. Guessing.”

“Guessing?” Rick asked, grinning slowly, “Stan. Lee. Stt-AAanley. Were you, uhhhh, perhaps uncharacteristically cheerful?”

Stan muttered to himself under his breath, tone dark, but a smile was tugging at his cheeks.

Rick cackled cheerfully, “Ha, you loser － I m-make you ha-happy,” he burped, “christ what an idiot, I sure have you fooled.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Stan grinned, “you’re marrying me too － and you heard that mess, this is going to be a _whole_ to-do. You’re stuck now, ya’ punk.”

“Well, if y- _yoour_ family knows, I guess we better tell mine. Never hear the fucking end of it if I don’t.”

A sudden silence fell over the car, as they contemplated the high-energy household they’d just left at the shack, and the temperament of Rick’s family.

“Lee,” Rick began, and Stan said, “Right! To the bar!” as he swung the car abruptly arong to turn onto another street.

“Thank’s babe,” Rick said, “I’d definitely prefer to be drunk for that conversation.”

* * *

Stan entered the living room, freshly high off fleecing some rubes, and came to an abrupt stop － “Mabel, what the heck is that?” He asked, gesturing at a massive pink monstrosity of a cake.

He frowned as he took in the rest of the scene － balloons in white and pink and purple, Ford frowning in the corner, Soos grinning like a loon, and Mabel covered in icing.

“Grunkle Stan!” she shouted, “You’re early!”

“ _Early?_ For what?” Stan asked suspiciously.

“Your bachelor party!” Mabel said, throwing her arms up and twirling.

“Oh yeah?” Stan asked, grinning, “That’s a hell of a cake, a girl gonna pop out of there?”

“Ehhh, _well_ ,” Mabel made a noise and waggled her hand, “Originally, we were gonna have Soos do it－”

“－Soos!” Stan said, backing away in revulsion. Soos frowned.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel said, her face screwed up in disappointment and sticky hands on her hips, “twenty years you’ve known Soos, and now you don’t wanna see him jump out of a cake?”

Soos shook his bowed head, “you insult me, Mr. Pines.”

“Soos, Mabel, come on,” Stan said, “I was just... Expecting a girl.”

“But you’re marrying a man,” Mabel said, frowning,

“Well by that logic I sure ain’t marrying _Soos_ ,” Stan said, crossing his arms.

“You don’t have to be _hurtful_ , Mr. Pines,” Soos said.

Ford sighed gustily from the corner.

“Well, whatever,” Stan grumbled, “cake probably tastes better without people in it anyways.”

He looked around the room, “Where’s that brother of yours anyways?”

Mabel traded a sidelong look with Soos, “Ummmm…”

“Darn kid’s probably trying to punch out a unicorn or some crap － I’ll go find him, means I don’t have to look at this mess anymore…” Stan grouched as he left the living room again.

“Dipper!” Mabel hissed loudly, “Abort! Abort!”

At that moment, there was an eruption of crumbling cake and icing as Dipper clawed his way out of the cake, screaming.

“Mabel! Mabel!” He shouted, voice cracking, “I can’t do this Mabel!” The icing caught and clung in the fake fur of his wolf costume, “I can’t breathe in there!”

“Dipper!” Mabel hissed, “there was a panel you were supposed to lift! Now there’s fur in the cake! I was going to reuse that for the wedding!”

Ford sighed gustily from the corner, cake clinging to his head.

* * *

Meanwhile, on the remote end of Sextillion VI, Rick strolled back into the so-called bachelor party that Summer of all people had arranged for him.

Of course, a titty bar on Sextillion VI would have been the last place Rick would have wanted for a stag part; it reminded him too much of _mumblemuttercoffeestops_ but that wasn’t for anyone else to know about. Otherwise there was nothing wrong with strip clubs as far as stag parties went. You watched the ladies — and gents — and everything in between, got in a few drinks, embarrassed each other, and then went home. Or ended up black-out drunk and in Beaumont like that one time, which Rick also didn’t like to be reminded about, because _fuck_ Beaumont.

He gave Bird Person a flat glare as he walked past his and Squanchy’s table. This had probably been BP’s idea. Bird Person, of course, returned the gaze with his perfectly placid poker face, but deep down Rick knew the man was (fondly) laughing at him. It was written all over Squanchy’s squished little cat-face.

But Summer was having a good time at least — maybe too _good_ of a time, Rick noted absently to himself — and Morty… wait, what the hell was Morty doing here? Well, maybe the subtle gyrations of the handsome hammer-headed Floobian grinding up against the pole on stage would be educational for the kid. Rick didn’t know. At least Morty wasn’t getting into trouble.

Rick swung past him and the booty-bouncing slice of sexy sentient pizza towards where Summer sat schmoozing pleasantly with a sultry banana slug named Jasmine, and a smiling pair of fish legs named Hzkorgefhlynee.

“Oh hey, Grandpa!” Summer greeted him with a big smile. “I didn’t see you for a while, where’ve you been?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rick said, looking faintly amused by how friendly Jasmine was getting with Summer’s knee. He supposed it wasn’t Summer’s fault that she didn’t know how Zopflaxars tended to get around… _knees_. “You-you doin’ okay here?”

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” Summer seemed extremely comfortable, especially after the whole Peacock Jones thing. Rick didn’t feel like ruining it for her.

“Okay. Just… keep an eye on Morty, will ya? I don’t want him getting all… all traumatized by some of the clientele here,” Rick slurred as he casually swiped a bottle off the table. “The employees are fine,” he added hastily as Hzkorgefhlynee’s fins went up, “it’s the clients. The _clients_.”

“It’s okay, Melba.” Summer patted Hzkorgefhlynee’s knee in a sympathetic manner. “My grandpa’s just looking out for us, he doesn’t mean it.”

“Mean what?” Rick didn’t even look at the label as he tipped the bottle back for a swig. “I was talking about the customers. Are you on a first-name basis with these people now?”

In the background, Rick was only vaguely aware of a coin-toss happening somewhere, based on the sounds of coinage pinging on the stage followed by muffled laughter against the backdrop of low-key EDM bass.

“Hey, these _people_ are my friends now,” Summer said coolly. “Susan here is a two-time national champion in slaazball AND an advocate for equal limbs rights,” she went on, giving Jasmine a fond squeeze about the main body mass, “and Melba is working on her second master’s degree. WITH fifty-two small fry. So, like. Chill, Grandpa Rick.” Melba fluttered her fins.

“Tha-aaat sounds like a good idea,” Rick belched. He waggled the bottle in his hand. “Gonna peace out.”

Behind them, there was a faint _ping_ and a moist _pat_. A small cheer went up.

“Okay, we’ll come find you later,” Summer sang with a wave of her hand.

By the time Rick left the main room for the private lounge, there were people patting Morty on the back and giving him spare change. Morty looked a little red-faced but pleased with himself.

* * *

His head was ringing like a cathedral bell and every single joint ached like it had just been hurtled out of a moving vehicle. Where, when, and who was he again? He groaned as his brain quickly caught up with those answers, roaring back into full throttle as it worked on piecing the last twenty four hours back together. Cautiously cracking open one eye, Rick Sanchez let his bleary vision come back into focus as he pushed himself up out of the desert sand. The heat from the burning spaceship crash site rolled over him as his eyes caught on something out of place glimmering in the warm firelight. Why was there a ring on his hand? Oh that’s right. He’d gotten married to Stanley today, and their honey moon had gotten started early in the spaceship before they’d even managed to leave orbit. He really should have put that thing on autopilot before Stan had... oh shit!

“Stanley? Fuck- chirssst-ssshit – where did he go?” Rick shouted as he scrambled to his feet and frantically scanned the area for his missing husband. “Stanley? Stanley! St-Stanley!”

No reply. No sign of the other man. There was nothing for miles but a bunch of sand and some smouldering cacti.

 _This right here_ , he thought with a pit gnawing viciously in his stomach, _is starting to feel a bit too much like another addition to the long list of reasons I don’t do weddings._

The shadows played off things so strangely in the light that he nearly hadn’t spotted the shoe sticking halfway out of a dip in the dark sand.

“L-Lee?” His hand trembled as he reached for the brown oxford shoe. Was a foot all that was left? A small stifled sniffle escaped as he clutched it to his chest.

A loan moaning sound came from behind a cactus as a lumbering dark figure emerged. Rick stiffened as he quickly held out the shoe like it was a weapon.

“Stay back! This things load-loaded!” Rick bluffed through his tightly clenched teeth.

“Ug- Rick? What the hell happened?” Finally stepping into the light of one of the burning cacti, Stanley paused at the sight of his dishevelled husband “Wait. Is that my shoe? Are you? Have you been crying?”

“I thought you were dead, asshole!” Rick yelled over Stanley’s boisterous laughter as he tossed the shoe at his head.

“Ow! Hey, watch it!” Stan chuckled as the shoe bounced off his shoulder. He picked it up out of the sand and after emptying it, slid it back on. “I know I got a penchant for dying in flaming car wrecks, but you seriously thought that measly crash did me in and all that was left was my shoe?”

“Shut up!” Rick scowled as he stood up and dusted himself off. The sour look on his face did nothing but fuel Stan’s laughter all the more.

“Aw, Darling, it’s okay” Stan said with a giant goofy grin as he suddenly grabbed Rick by the lapels of his lab coat, “I’m not letting you get out of this marriage that easy!”

Without warning Stan dipped him into a kiss, as deep and passionate as the one they’d shared after signing that damned rushed marriage license. Rick firmly decided that he still hated weddings. Although, when he let himself relax into the arms of his newlywed old partner in crime, his hand still sticky with grapefruit juice and sand as he cupped Stan’s grit stubbled cheek, Rick also decided that perhaps not all weddings had unhappy endings.


End file.
